


I Did Not Notice the Passers By

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Five Plus One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Gayalondiel. Five times John was dehydrated, and one time he was and one more time, only with Sherlock in tow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Did Not Notice the Passers By

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Language, discussion of bodily fluids (vomit, blood, excrement). Not mine, no money.

The first time he doesn't remember – he was only hours old.

Born after twenty-seven hours of labor, his mum told him later, the best result she could have had for so long a time. Harry, always in a hurry had arrived eighteen months later and that labor had only taken five hours.

"You always did things in your own time," his mum says fondly. "Even the most basic things." She ruffles his hair and tells him about how, when he was first born, hours, and then days old, they thought he wouldn't survive, that there was something wrong with his kidneys. A night in intensive care with an IV and a catheter at three days had shown that he was just taking his time, and severely dehydrated.

"They made me give you formula," his mum says – while he is doing his obstetrics and pediatric rotations. "And you were right as rain. Don't you ever tell a new mum that her milk's not good enough, she's more frightened than you'll ever be, ever, John, tell her instead that she's perfect as she is, and her baby's perfect, too, and she'll do just fine, no matter what."

John takes it to heart, and when he meets a baby, a dark haired girl with huge eyes who hasn't urinated, was almost dying of dehydration, he looked into the frightened, pain-wracked eyes of the mother and said,

"She's perfect. She just needs help – we all do." The relief in the mother's eyes is wrenching.

* * *

The second time, he's five and he and Harry have given their mum and dad the slip on a hot summer day and are in Harry's Wendy House, drinking fizzy drinks and gorging on candy until his stomach rebels and he vomits all over the plastic floor.

Harry cries that he's ruined her tea party, but he doesn't care because it's hot, and the room won't stop spinning and his head hurts and he wants his mum.

Harry's crying and he can't get her to stop as he slides down the hot plastic wall, and the small space begins to stink of vomit.

Harry's crying and John crawls out of the Wendy House, hoping for relief.

Harry's crying and their mum comes out, racing to Harry who's now covered in vomit and sobbing hysterically.

John manages to stand and stagger to the house where he crawls under his bed.

An hour later, his mum finds him and makes him tell her the whole story while she makes him drink something awful and sweet, but it makes him feel better.

She tucks him into his small bed with a gentle kiss and sits with him until his headache goes away and he falls asleep. When he wakes up, he wonders why his mum didn't scold him for sneaking off in the first place with the fizzy drinks and candy.

He can ever again go back into the Wendy House without feeling nauseous. Harry's perfectly happy with this development it turns out.

* * *

John's fourteen and on the rugby pitch. Or, rather, on the sideline during a break in the most important tournament of the season, vomiting his guts out. He's been running for hours, it feels like, and the rain and sweat have soaked him through so his strip is sticking to him like second skin.

His legs are cramping, and he can barely see. He groans as another spasm grips him, and he digs his hands into the mud, willing his body to stop, please just stop.

There's a hand on his shoulder as he wretches again.

"Watson," a voice barks. It's his coach, and John's heart sinks. "Watson take a break. You're not responsible for the entire damn tournament. When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink, boy?"

John grunts and manages to sit back in the mud, away from his vomit.

"Yeah, I thought so," grunts his coach. He shoves a plastic bottle at John. "Fucking take a drink, boy, before you faint. "You're no good to me unconscious."

John takes the bottle in shaking hands and squirts its contents into his mouth.

"Rinse, and spit, first, boy," Mr Harris instructs gruffly and John weakly obeys.

He drinks the contents of the bottle slowly, taking small sips as Mr Harris watches him for the rest of the afternoon. They don't win the tournament, but by the end of the day, even though he won't admit it, he's glad to be done – his head is pounding.

* * *

The sunlight's too bright, John thinks as he cracks open his eyes. Where the hell is he?

It turns out he's in his bed. Or, rather, on top of his bed in his clothes from last night.

"You awake yet, Johnny boy?"  
Oh, God.

"Hmmf, Harry?"

The only thing worse than having Harry so close in age is having Harry at the same university, sharing a flat with him because they'll save on the rent that way and, according to their father, "John will be able to keep an eye on you, young lady."

Only this time, it's John who needed an eye, apparently.

"You really go all out, don't you Johnny, boy?" Harry's asking him and John groans, squeezing his eyes closed. "I've never seen you quite so… lively."

Fuck, she's laughing at him.

"Here," she says, and her voice is echoing inside his head. "Drink this."

 _This_ turns out to be a glass of something red – tomato juice and vodka? John takes a sip and nearly vomits.

"Oh, none of that, ducky," Harry says, hauling him up. "Trust me, you'll thank me later."

A few miserable hours later and the urge to vomit and shit simultaneously has subsided. Harry's been feeding him crackers and tomato juice steadily all that time.

"Thanks," John croaks. "All right?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "It's a nice change, isn't it? Me taking care of you. Especially when you've been on a bender."

John grunts. His head still aches. Death would be preferable to this.

* * *

And while death isn't really what he wants, _please, God, let me live, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease_ , it certainly seems that it's going to end up that way.

John's dying. He can taste blood in his mouth, and feel pressure on his shoulder, and God, he would kill for a drink of water right now.

The bright bowl of the sky is white, white, white.

 _It's supposed to be blue. Why's it white?_

There's shouting, and he thinks he understands it, but he doesn't speak … what language is that? What's a Watson?

He knows that when you're thirsty, it's already too late.

White. Salt. Copper on his tongue. Pressure on his shoulder growing greater.

White.

There's a moment of lucidity – he sees the red of Murray's face and the green of a tree and the brown of the dirt and the bright white underside of the sky.

A dinner plate.

Something's wet on his hand. It's warm. He brings his hand to his mouth. It tastes of copper. Salt. Dirt.

 _Please, god, let me live._

His tongue feels thick in his mouth.

White.

He wants to live, but he can't figure out why. What's so important about it.

Murray's sitting on his shoulder.

Wet on his lips.

What's wet?

White.

There are tiny dots in his field of vision. And language, bursting in his ears.

Watson.

That's not him.

Medic!

That's familiar – he knows something about medics. Is he a medic?

He's thirsty. So thirsty.

Wet on his lips.

Black, now.

 _John._

* * *

A forced march across the moor was not what he'd had in mind, years ago, when he'd first said "Oh, God, yes."

But there he is, pretending he's not lost, hoping beyond fuck that he'll find Sherlock.

The daft wanker has vanished. Couldn't keep still for five minutes.

It starts to rain.

His feet hurt. New hiking boots: a Christmas gift from Harry.

John thinks about different ways he'd like to murder Sherlock.

He thinks about all the different ways Sherlock could _already_ be dead and he starts to run.

He's sweating beneath his layers, but it's February and he knows better than to shed clothing on the moor.

He stops, hands on his knees, panting, gasping for air in the cold, damp mist.

He'd hared off after Sherlock without a water bottle, a thermos, or anything.

Great. Die of dehydration _and_ exposure. The perfect end to a horrible day. The reason why Sherlock had dashed off was because John was being boring, of course arguing bout every detail (down to Sherlock's manic driving). The need for space had become too much.

John knows it's stupid, but he sits down, closes his eyes.

But Sherlock's with him, coaxing his mouth open. Pouring water down his throat. Rubbing life back into his arms. Warm lips on his.

"You came back," John mumbles.

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock says, hoisting John's arm over his shoulder and wrapping his other arm around John's body. "Of course I did."

They limp to safety.

Together.


End file.
